Grabapple.net

Today’s post title is taken from a startling Henry Winkler children’s video, Strong Kids Safe Kids. I haven’t seen it, but it made a deep impression on my husband and his siblings, who learned to sing the lyrics “Penis is the proper word, vagina is the proper word too-oo.” Which they are, so good for the Fonz in teaching kids what body parts are called. Even if that means those children will sing this song at all future family gatherings at the least opportune times.

Anyway, wee-wees and noonies aside, I am slowly losing my Zenlike demeanor as my due date approaches with no signs of anything particular happening in Uterus Land. Not that it can’t happen quickly, I am repeatedly assured. Or not that it can’t take another two weeks, I am also informed. So I should just relax and take it easy, although I should also be prepared to spring into action at any moment. Yes, I should be doing both of these things, and taking herbal supplements that may or may not be doing anything, or either taking or avoiding caffeine, and also exercising, but not too hard, and checking for fluid I may be leaking, but not obsessively so, though if it’s the wrong kind of fluid, my God, call the doctor right now! The sonogram tech also told me I should be “getting it on as much as possible” which, thanks lady I don’t even know, but none of your business, so shut up.

The fact of the matter is, we just don’t really have much of a fucking clue as to why women go into labor or don’t, or go early, or have to be induced because the baby might be in danger if he stays in too long. We have sonograms to see how big the baby is…which can be wildly inaccurate (and begs the question, why bother with them at all?).

We tell pregnant women to be calm and happy and think positive thoughts–but also to prepare for every possible horrible outcome that might KILL HER BABY AND POSSIBLY RUIN HER REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS AND LEAD TO DEATH. And then chuckle when she gets a little spazzy and cranky because her brain cannot do both of these things at the same time, never mind trying to live what’s left of the rest of her normal life in the meantime. Never mind that she cannot turn over in bed without a complicated six-point maneuver that makes parallel parking a ’79 Olds look like a walk in the park. Never mind that she can’t go more than 3.5 blocks without wanting to pee, even if she just did. Or that she can’t have a beer, when frankly, she has seldom felt the need for one so much in her entire life. Or that the baby’s apparent ongoing hatred of meat means that she is getting really sick of pasta for dinner.

So mostly I am still calm, and not nearly as snarly as I could be when people call to ask if I’ve had the baby yet, because there’s a chance, you know, that I might just forget and wait a week before telling people. If you know me, if I have your phone number, you will get a call. I promise. Matt’s got the phone and email lists all set to go. So stop asking. Call and talk to me about something else…a movie, your girlfriend, your stupid boss, whatever. Because my brain is pretty much set to K-BABY all the time, and I welcome distractions.

Sorry. See, I told you I was cranky. People are really so nice to me…I had one person I’ve met only at an online forum tell me she was sending me some knitted baby things. And that just blew me away. And my coworkers threw me such a nice baby shower on my last day, complete with a pair of Robeez which were The Cuteness and which I was too cheap to buy for the baby myself. But that I really wanted.

So tomorrow I start another week of limbo, working on a few projects, finishing up my thank you notes, maybe puttering around on some other stuff. Practicing the Zen art of constant vigilance plus complete relaxation.

I’ll let you know how that goes.

Are you working on a fantasy novel? Then for Jebus’ sake, take The Fantasy Novelist’s Exam first. Answering “yes” to any question means that you should give it up already.

That goes twice for effing Robert Jordan. I hate that guy. And Darrell K. Sweet, who illustrates his covers, sucks equal amounts of ass. Ever heard of perspective and proportional human figures, Darrell? I used to have to stock these stupid books at Borders when I worked there, and the covers always gave me eyebleed. And there would be a new tome come out every damn year, and it would go on the bestseller list, and I would shake my fist at humanity once again.

(courtesy Bookslut).

After being pretty quiet all day, the baby is turning somersaults now at 1 in the morning. Or at least doing some serious squirming. I tell him, use some of that energy to work on getting out here with the rest of us, where you can squirm all day long without giving Mommy heartburn. So far, this message does not seem to be having any effect.

Today (well, 10/27) is my official “early” due date, the one that my first sonogram tech told me. My official official due date remains the 1st, so, I can’t officially get officially impatient. Yet.

But I’m ready. We have his stuff ready. We have ourselves as mentally prepared as it’s possible to be.* The midwife tells me his sonograms look good, he’s physically ready. So really, he has no excuses for lollygagging, unless he’s just determined to be a Halloween baby. Which, I tell him, is cool and all but not really that big a deal. He can have his birthdays on Halloween no matter what actual day he appears, that’ll be fine with me.

In the meantime I’m adjusting to my new sleep schedule, meaning any sleep before 2am is impossible. It takes till 2 to get me exhausted enough to close my eyes and have them stay that way. Also, 11-2 is apparently Prime Hiccup Time for the baby. I don’t know why hiccuping is such a major part of his day, but there is usually at least 1 hour devoted to it every day. I hope it’s doing something for his system and not uncomfortable for him at all. It doesn’t seem to be triggered by anything specific that I eat or anything.

It has been really good for my blog posting, though (the staying up late, not the hiccuping). Turning on a TV is kind of loud while the guys are sleeping, so my friend the Internet gives me a way to let myself wind down. And also to read even more birth stories. Did you know some of them come with pictures taken during birth? Those can be startling, let me tell you. Placentas look freaky, my friends, and newborn babies hardly less so. Click if you dare.

*That is to say, not very.

God protect me from ever getting a phone call like this from my son.

Letter from a soldier’s mom, courtesy of Buzzflash.

My Son in Iraq: I Know That It Happened Because I Heard It

Teri Mackey
Novato, CA

We passed the 2,000 mark for soldier deaths today. By tomorrow there’ll be more. I can hate George Bush for being a liar, a coward, incompetent, and greedy. But I hate him most for the blood of these soldiers that will always be on his hands.

How German babies are made. Um, not safe for work. But funny.

Thread on Moms Who Think about the most embarrassing moments during their labor and delivery. Contains many bodily fluid references. But also, funny.

Me? I’m tired all the time. Crampy. I think I’m able to tell that I’m having Braxton-Hicks contractions now. Makes my stomach feel like you could bounce a quarter off of it, but so far, doesn’t hurt. Calm before the storm, which may be 20 minutes or 2 weeks away.

So I’ve spent lots of money at Target over the years. Right now I’m registered there for baby stuff, and have gift certificates from there as baby shower gifts.

And then they had to go a pull a dick move like this:

A 26-year-old Missouri woman was refused EC when she handed her prescription to a pharmacist at a Target store in Fenton, MO, on September 30. The woman was told by the pharmacist, “I won’t fill it. It’s my right not to fill it.” She was told that she could go to a local Walgreens instead. The woman said, “When the pharmacist told me she wouldn’t [fill the prescription], I went from disbelief to shock to anger. I guess I’m still pretty angry. It seems unbelievable to me that a medical professional could/would deny access to a federally approved drug and impose their personal beliefs in a professional setting. I am also grateful that I did not need it filled at that time. I don’t know how it would be if I had just been raped or if the condom broke and I was a feeling confusion and panic anyway — and then was denied access and told to go across the street.”

The national headquarters of Target has not responded to three PPFA attempts to clarify its policy on pharmacist refusals.

I didn’t want to believe this was true, so I wrote them. Here’s their response, emphasis mine:

Dear Target Guest,

Target places a high priority on our role as a community pharmacy and our obligation to meet the needs of the patients we serve. We expect all our team members, including our pharmacists, to provide respectful service to our guests, particularly when it comes to their health care needs.

Like many other retailers, Target has a policy that ensures a guest’s prescription for emergency contraception is filled, whether at Target or at a different pharmacy, in a timely and respectful manner. This policy meets the health care needs of our guests while respecting the diversity of our team members.

Your thoughts help us learn more about what our guests expect, so I’ll be sure to share your feedback with our pharmacy executives.

Thanks for taking the time to share your questions, thoughts and comments. I hope we’ll see you again soon at Target.

Sincerely,

Jennifer Hanson
Target Executive Offices

You see what they did there? Instead of making the brave move of either a) saying that Target will not allow its pharmacists to discriminate, or b) Target doesn’t believe in contraception so it’s not going to fill anyone’s prescription, Target is trying to have it both ways. They’re hoping you’ll keep shopping there and just risk being there on a day some nutjob fundie decides you’re a sinner who doesn’t deserve contraception and turns you away.

And how exactly do they ensure that you will be able to get your prescription filled elsewhere? They can’t.

But that’s really not the issue. The issue is that a pharmacist can now take it upon themselves to decide whether or not they approve of your legal prescription from a qualified doctor, and Target is ok with that. So what’s next? What if the pharmacist decides that AIDS patients don’t deserve to live? Or that you should really be curing your depression with prayer, not Paxil?

Or what if another Target employee says “My religion doesn’t allow me to serve or talk to black people”? Will Target then tell black customers, that’s ok, on days when this guy is working there are plenty of other places for you to shop? Hell no. Because it’s stupid and wrong. Just like this is stupid and wrong.

Why the hell are these people being allowed to interfere in this legal and medical transaction that is, excuse my language, none of their fucking business? If you don’t want to prescribe birth control, don’t be a pharmacist, or go be a pharmacist at a Catholic pharmacy. Don’t you DARE impose your religion on me. You are not my pastor, my mom, or my God, and you have no right to tell me what legal substances I can or cannot ingest.

I guess I can in good conscience use my gift certificates, since Targe already has the money for them..but it’s burning my biscuits to even think of walking in there again.

Asshats.

There are singing Hasidim every night in my neighborhood; last night it was a bunch of men next door repeating one chorus over and over, at the end led by a young boy whose voice was on the verge of cracking.

This morning, a cluster of small kids frantically singing on the sidewalk as I walked to the train.

Tonight, farther down the street, some sort of amplified sound system blasted someone’s lecturing in Yiddish or Hebrew. Next door, children chattered excitedly after midnight as they ran in and out of their Sukkah for the Festival of Sukkot, which has about another week to go.

My normal inclination is to disapprove of young kids being up so late, but you know, not my kids. So I won’t complain, except about the fact that the only (Jewish) grocery store around here is closed for much of the holiday, making me send poor Matt out on longer grocery expeditions. And the one good thing about everyone being up so late (much of the celebrating seems to start at 9 and go till 1 or 2) is that the streets are pretty quiet until late afternoon, making my daily expedition to the drugstore for a Diet Coke and maybe some chips less stressful. Normal afternoons around here involve dodging double strollers and yarmulke-clad bicycle hooligans on the sidewalk.

I’m slowly getting the hang of the stay at home thing, but it’s a new concept still. This maternity leave will be the longest I haven’t gone into an office since I graduated high school. I’ve never been unemployed more than 3-4 weeks. I am technically still working, and keeping myself from being a total slug by getting up at my normal work time and checking email, letting my office know I’m around. Of course, this is often followed by a nap, but my boss doesn’t need to know that.

Today, instead of napping, I made my way into Manhattan briefly to get my new, punk-rock do. I will post pics as soon as I can wheedle Dean into taking one for me. Suffice it to say, it’s short. Super short. Omigod short. No piece of hair longer than 2″ short.

It could look a bit butch to some people, and I was afraid it would look that way to me too. Halfway through the cut, I had an “oh shit” moment when I wondered if I would have to wear scarves and hats until it grew out again. But when he was done…I wasn’t freaked out at all. I was pleased. It’s a strong cut, if that makes any sense. It’s no-nonsense, a bit aggressive, and the kind of cut you only get when you’re confident. And it works with my face more than I thought it would.

All my life, my hair has been a problem. I would have preferred the Felicity kind of hair, thick windblown romantic ringlets, like a princess. But no. I got ultra-straight, lank, perm-and-product hating hair. Grown long, it’s lifeless. Medium length cuts tend to be dowdy (the eternal bob) or problematic (shags that look good on other people but mullety on me). Short cuts that I’ve had before always seemed to have an unfortunate Dorothy Hamill-esque quality to them. Barrettes, headbands and clips slide out of my hair as if it were greased. And hats are not an option until you’re about 50 at least.

But this works. There is no styling, hardly any goo needed. No clips, bands, or ponytail holders. No straggly little hairs on the sides and back that require me to use a tiny curling iron and lots of hairspray. No need for a hair dryer. The only thing easier would be going bald–and heck, that’s not true. I’d have to shave every day.

It’s practical for after the baby, of course. But I’m pretty sure that I did it for me. I just wish I’d had the guts to try it sooner.

OK, I have a tendency to write Posts of Extreme Darkness and all, so I’ll go with some good news. The first woman in my childbirth class had her baby this weekend, a little girl. This was one of the more nervous types in class, who wasn’t sure she was up for it. But she did great.

Also today, if you haven’t seen it already, the Wikipedia list of Words and Phrases Coined by the Simpsons. Clicking each one will give you its history and what episode it appeared in. It’s sacrilicious.

My new schedule is wreaking havoc with my sleep cycle. Or maybe it’s hormones. Or both. Either way, when I lay down, no matter how tired, my eyes fly open and I am staring at the ceiling. Worse, I often start chatting with Matt, keeping him up, which is hardly fair, as he actually has to go to work in the mornings.

So, just to wear myself out, here’s something I was thinking about today after reading about the Miers thing, how she may or may not have told some friends that she’d rule against Roe v. Wade. And I started thinking about how the men on the prolife/anti-abortion (take your pick) side partly seem to be motivated by a sentimental view of women’s bodies that is not at all the way women themselves see their bodies. And that this is part of the great divide between men and women that makes the abortion debate so ferocious, that makes women say such infuriating things as “you just can’t understand” when this topic comes up.

This came home to me in one of those discussions online that drifted into Seinfeld territory, with the male posters (and some of the women) maintaining that while female bodies were works of art, male bodies looked silly naked. Not only does this belie several hundred years of artworks like Michelangelo’s David, it ignores the reality of all bodies…which can look both divine and exceedingly silly. From the wrong angles, women’s bodies, just like men’s, sag and bobble and scrunch up like an old pillow. Even when we’re young and firm, there are times when a belly pooches out, or boobs flop unbecomingly, or a double chin appears. And of course male or female, we deal with gravity as we age, when everything heads south.

And yet, when I pointed this out to one poster, he refused to consider that a naked woman (or perhaps just the naked women he could imagine himself with) could ever look anything but beautiful. And while this should have been taken as a compliment to our gender, it irritated me. Because it seems to deny something about our humanity. Why is it ok for men’s bodies to be comic and varied…short, squat, hairy, thin, gangly, saggy or firm–but women’s bodies are always being held up to some ideal? I mean, there is a way in which the person you love is always beautiful to you, yes. But that doesn’t really blind you to their physical imperfections. You see them, you just don’t care about them. And hopefully they do the same for you. Because sometimes, you will not be beautiful. Sometimes you will be torn and hurting and sweaty and ungraceful, or saggy and old and wrinkled. And you will want the person you are with to be able to deal with this reality, as you have to deal with it.

I think all this is related to the fact that paeans to the miraculous, spiritual, nurturing beauty of the female body–and the horror when that role is rejected–always come out when the idea of abortion is discussed. And yet, many many women tend to become silent when such things are said, or even seem uncomfortable about assuming such a role. Not out of shame at our bodies, but out of a certain, unspoken unsentimentality about them, and about childbearing in general. It’s the reason books like the Girlfriend’s Guide to Pregnancy sell, and why women sit around swapping horror stories about their births. We want down from the pedestal, we want to tell our experience without the heavenly glow of sacred maternity around it. We want acknowledgement that being the child-bearing gender is hard, unglamorous work.

From the time we start getting periods, women are forced to start thinking about our bodies as something to take care of…something that is messy, is not an idealized madonna-figure. Like all bodies, ours leak and sag and scar. And childbirth exacerbates all that. During and after pregnancy, when you cannot eat without vomiting, when you see stretch marks and varicose veins, when you get constipated, when your boobs leak or you bleed or have episotomy stitches, when you are forced to deal with all sorts of bodily unpleasantries, you do not feel like the beautiful gender. You may indeed feel like a warrior, strong and proud at what you accomplished, but you have no illusions about your body. It bears the marks of what you’ve gone through. You are proud of it, but you know its weaknesses, too. You know them and you deal with them.

And it is this knowledge that can make you, sometimes, brutally unsentimental about the pregnancy itself, especially in the early stages. You can suddenly understand, completely, why a woman might choose an abortion, why she might wish to step out of the way of the massive, life-spanning responsibility rolling towards her. Why sentimental thoughts about the fetus pale next to a terror for her own survival, and a determination to preserve her own life and freedoms as best she can. You are not a goddess of motherhood peacefully gestating the future. You are a woman, mortal and afraid for your life and your health and your future. The wonder is not that so many women have abortions but that so many don’t. Those who decide to ride out the fear, or at least close their eyes to it, are choosing to walk through a fire that will change them, and possibly, destroy them. There may be joy on the other side, but there are no guarantees about that. There may also be suffering; a handicapped child, poverty, the loss of the mother’s dreams for herself. Or even injury. Or even death.

When the anti-abortion side talks about birth, about the moral imperatives of a woman facing a pregnancy she feels unsuited for, they don’t, or can’t, acknowledge any of this. They do not acknowledge that there is a terror to to the whole endeavor, a risk of death itself, of injury, of lifetime sacrifice. They don’t acknowledge these things because it would weaken the argument that there is no good reason for abortion.

I left the pro-life movement after college for this reason; the growing sense that I could not look a pregnant woman in the face and tell her what she must or must not do with her body. I could not assure it would be all right, that it was worth it, that there would be no terrible price to pay for carrying her pregnancy to term. I could not deny the non-physical forces also arranged against her; the lack of health care for her, no maternity leave at her job, the cruelty of welfare, the grimness of poverty that visits young single mothers. I could tout adoption, but only if her baby was white and healthy…and even then, there was no reassurance that such a decision would not tear her in two, or make her worry all her life about whether her child was being mistreated, whether she was a bad person for making that decision.

I walked into pregnancy with a ready made support team. I have a good job with decent insurance. I have a husband who loves me and wants this baby too. I have a family who would take me in if I needed them to. I have friends who would do the same. I am in good health. And this allows me to face the uncertainty with a reasonable amount of optimism. It allowed me to fight the fear that threatened me in the first trimester, to ride it out, and to go on. But without those things, I can’t say what I would have done.

I have other reasons for ending up on the pro-choice side, but this entry is long enough. More to come, maybe, when I can put it in some kind of articulate form. Time to try sleeping again.

I will let the quotes speak for themselves. From this UN report.

…Malaysia—a country with an average income one-quarter that of the United States— has achieved the same infant mortality rate as the United States (figure 1). And the Indian state of Kerala has an urban infant death rate lower than that for African Americans in Washington, DC….

…The Institute of Medicine estimates that at least 18,000 Americans die prematurely each year solely because they lack health insurance. Being born into an uninsured household increases the probability of death before age 1 by about 50%….